Wormholes by Dennis Meredith Read Free Book Online Page A

help you.”
    “Yeah, like you’ve got the money?” She glanced at his ratty van, with its crumpled fender and peeling paint.
    “No, of course not. But there’s a foundation that supports me. It funds research that’s kind of speculative … you know, at the edge.”
    “Like Bigfoot and UFO s?”
    “Well, I don’t know about that, but I heard about it and put in an application, and they’re paying for me to do this stuff.”
    “What’s the name?”
    Gerald took a crumpled card out of his pocket and handed it to her. The card read “Deus Foundation” and had a New York address and phone number.
    “Deus, like the Latin for God? They religious?”
    “Well, I don’t think so. I think they meant the name to mean, like, the ultimate. The search for the ultimate.”
    Dacey knew there were dozens of odd little foundations around, and that they tended to support research that wasn’t yet well-established enough to get money from the big government agencies. She stretched out her legs, wriggled her toes, looked at the card and thought a minute.
    “And what’ll you do?”
    “I’ll tell them your research fits in with mine. That might help when you put in a grant application. All they can do is say no.”
    Dacey gave a what-the-hell shrug and put the card in her jeans pocket. “Well, maybe if this’ll get me any closer to figuring out that damned hole. But I’ve got to think about this. You go away now. Just go get in your little van and go sleep somewhere. Call me tomorrow. I’ll let you know whether I’ve decided to work with you or run you off.”
    He backed away, smiling slightly beneath his beard. “Fine. That’s all I ask.” He turned and got into his van, cranked its recalcitrant engine to clattering life and drove away, leaving a slight pall of smoke over the quiet street. She waited until he was gone and retrieved the rock and the video camera from the Range Rover.
    “Well?” she heard behind her. It was Nancy, the pistol still in her waistband. “I watched out the window. Was he a mugger or what?”
    “He was a ‘what.’ Kind of a nut. Or maybe a genius.”
    “Or a nutty genius.”
    Dacey nodded, thanked Nancy for the firepower support and carried her valuable evidence into the townhouse.

R obert Langdon Balch, the second youngest-ever Senior Associate Vice President at the San Francisco investment firm Darien, Bowles and Gladstone Ltd., twiddled his Mont Blanc pen impatiently as he flipped through the corporate report. He glanced up again at the digital clock on his desk — the one he positioned in his line of sight across the walnut desk, so he could surreptitiously watch the time when he had visitors. Indeed, it did show seven o’clock. A seven and two zeroes. He’d been ready since the clock showed six-five-zero. Really ready. The corporate stock prospectus bored him, and he flipped the last page over and pitched the thick blue booklet in his to-be-filed box for the secretary. The company was a dog. No glamour. No glitz. It mass-produced some kind of electronic sensors for industrial boilers. Not an exotic biotech firm; not a balls-out aggressive software firm. Not the kind of company he could profitably pitch to his investor clients.
    He decided to pass time playing with his computer. He shouldn’t need to keep on working. The clock glowed with seven-zero-five now, past time for everybody to be gone. Time for things to start happening. He pressed a few keys to check his computerized schedule. Yes, indeed, he had scheduled the appointment from seven o’clock to eight. It was a blacked-out listing on the computer network, so the other executives who looked at his schedule couldn’t see the purpose; just that the hour was blocked out. Seven until eight, then he would go home for dinner.
    Bored with the computer, he swiveled his big leather chair to look out the large window at San Francisco spread out below in a vibrant clutter. The city’s lights were coming on in the slightly hazy